To be chaste, is to be old,

And that foolish girl that's cold,

Is fourscore at fifteen

;

Desires do write us green,

And looser flames our youth unfold.

See, the first taper's almost gone!
Thy flame like that will straight be none;
And I, as it expire,

Unable to hold fire:

She loseth time that lies alone.

O let us cherish then these powers,
Whiles we yet may call them ours!
Then we best spend our time,

When no dull zealous chime,

But sprightful kisses strike the hours.

THOMAS NABBES.

LANGBAINE, without giving us any particulars of his life, only tells us that he was pretty much esteemed by his contemporaries. The first of the following specimens, extracted from his poems (subjoined to "The Spring's Glory," a masque, Lond. 4to, 1639), has some originality: the second would not have been disowned by his patron, Suckling. See Biographia Dramatica.

Upon excellent Strong Beer, which he drank at the town of Wich, in Worcestershire, where salt is made.

THOU ever youthful god of wine,

Whose burnish'd cheeks with rubies shine,
Thy brows with ivy chaplets crown'd;

We dare thee here to pledge a round!

Thy wanton grapes we do detest;
Here's richer juice from barley press'd.

Let not the Muses vainly tell,

What Virtue's in the horse-hoof well,
That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,
But with mere inspiration feeds :

Oh let them come and taste this beer,

And water henceforth they'll forswear.

If that the Paracelsian crew

The virtues of this liquor knew,

Their endless toils they would give o'er,
And never use extractions more.

'Tis medicine; meat for young and old;
Elixir; blood of tortur'd gold.

It is sublim'd; it's calcinate;
"Tis rectified; precipitate;
It is Androgena, Sol's wife;
It is the Mercury of life;

It is the quintessence of malt;
And they that drink it want no salt.

It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills;
Men's heads with proclamations fills;
It makes some dumb, and others speak;
Strong vessels hold, and crack'd ones leak;
It makes some rich, and others poor;
It makes, and yet mars many a score.

On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful.

WHAT though with figures I should raise
Above all height my mistress' praise;

Calling her cheek a blushing rose,

The fairest June did e'er disclose ;

Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes, The luminaries of the skies;

That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows?-
Too great hyperboles ! unless

She loves me, she is none of these.
But, if her heart and her desires
Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor.-
She is all these, and ten times more.

HENRY GLAPTHORNE.

A POET Who, like many of his contemporaries, seems to have mistaken extravagance and exaggeration for tenderness and fancy. His best composition is entitled "to my Friend, Advice" it contains much good sense, and some good poetry, but it is too long for insertion here. Of his lighter pieces the following is perhaps the least unfavourable specimen. His poems were printed in a small 4to, 1639. He wrote, besides, nine plays, five of which were printed singly in 1639 and 1640. Phillips pronounces him "not altogether ill-deserving of the English stage."

UNCLOSE those eye-lids, and outshine
The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover is divine;

Why should it fade so soon away?
Stars vanish so, and day appears;

The sun's so drown'd i' th' morning's tears.

Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,
Which if you lose you'll ne'er recover!

It is not love's, but sorrow's duty,

To die so soon for a dead lover. Banish, oh! banish grief, and then Our joys will bring our hopes again.